


Mind The Gap

by Scarlet



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:05:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet/pseuds/Scarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson meet at the Claridge's after the 2008 IWTB premiere in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind The Gap

She’s leaning over the marble balcony of the Claridge’s top terrace, arms outstretched like some Shakespearian heroine basking in the warm summer night breeze. Hearing his footsteps, she turns with a slight frown. A smile tugs at his lips as her extravagantly pregnant profile is revealed. Katharina has been tamed; at least for now.

She recognizes him and annoyance gives way to relief. “I thought you were one of them,” she explains, in that low British voice she uses these days.

He sets his glass down on the pale polished stone and takes a quick look at the street down below. Black cabs and red double decker buses are scattered among the slow moving traffic and he makes a quick mental note to find their toy counterparts before he leaves.

“Who’s them?” He asks, turning to rest his back against the balustrade.

She looks at his wine glass wistfully, her manicured thumb peeling at the label of the designer water bottle she’s been holding. “Oh you know - the press, all those media people.”

“What? How could you pass up yet another amazing opportunity to tell all about your sordid past?”

She elbows him lightly. “Watch out, or I’ll use this amazing opportunity to tell them all about your sordid present.”

He dips his chin and his chuckle is not quite as cheerful as he wants it to sound – she is, of course, clueless about the bull’s eye she just scored. “When did you get such a mean streak?” he asks her.

Her smile is gentle as her slim hand comes up to stroke the stubble on his cheek. “I learned from the best.”

He steps away from her a little, glancing around him wearily. Her brow creases as she follows his gaze to the red brick building across the road. “What is it? Did we just make someone rich?” she teases him.

“I hope not. Seeing the two of us on the Sun’s front page might just ruin the perfect English breakfast I have planned for tomorrow morning.”

She waves a hand dismissively, “I very much doubt it. I’d hate to remind you of the cruel passage of time, but we’re not front page news anymore.”

“True, we’re the tired stars of a defunct TV show, valiantly trying to make a useless comeback onto the big screen to cash in on the nostalgia factor.”

“Who said that?”

“Nobody yet, but they will. Give it time.” He runs a lazy finger around the rim of his glass.

“I’m not tired,” she protests.

“Not right now.”

“I’ve never been tired.”

“I beg to differ, back in the days you were all kinds of tired.”

“So were you.”

They grin at each other then, like two fishermen who know exactly how deep both their lines go and what kind of fish they’re baiting.

He finishes his wine. “Husband number three was wondering where you were, by the way.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Sorry. I meant to say ‘potential husband number three’. Well, maybe not so potential now if he sees that footage of you copping a feel on the red carpet,” he tells her, leaving his glass on the table behind him.

She slaps his arm in playful outrage. “Oh, not that again! I did *not* touch your ass on the red carpet.”

“It’s my ass; I know when it’s being felt up.”

“Maybe it got numb from all the kissing.”

He shoves both hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. “Believe me, those days are long gone.”

Even after all this time apart, she can still sense the shift of his moods like undercurrents beneath the outer shell of his carefully crafted public persona. Something more than jet lag is accentuating the lines around his eyes and there is a restlessness about him that wasn’t there before. “Is everything okay?” she asks him seriously.

He looks at her in surprise, as if he’d forgotten who she was to him – a little stunned that she would sense something was off kilter when they have been strangers for so many years. No, things have not been okay in a while. But he isn’t sure he wants to spoil her evening with tales of unsavoury creeks, lost paddles and leaky canoes.

“If I answer that, you’ll never respect me in the morning,” he huffs with just the right touch of unaffected world-weariness. He’s a better actor than he’s often given credit for.

She brings her bottle to her lips – penetrating forget-me-not eyes never leaving his. She’s aware he’s giving her a way out. She knows a few things about acting too; her West London study even has paper weights that tell her so.

“I never did anyway. Spill.”

So he tells her everything. When he’s done he’s shocked to realize the wretched mess that swallowed his life whole like some gigantic Leviathan can be summarized so succinctly. But it's never been necessary to explain himself or justify his motives to her. For nearly ten years, forced intimacy made them peel away layer after layer of ugliness and grace until they could map each other’s network of flaws and virtues with uncanny accuracy. In a way, they ended up closer than some husbands and wives ever would - through knowledge rather than love.

She looks at him for a while after he’s done talking, head tilted on one side, fingers twisting the bottle cap on and off. “You’re so fucked,” she concludes in that oh-so-proper middle class accent.

“Thanks. I kind of figured that out by myself.”

“I’m so sorry.” She draws him into a fierce hug that is only awkward because her huge belly is standing in the way.

He breathes in her hair, and for some reason finds himself pulled back fourteen years ago in Vancouver, to a grey morning in his trailer. He’d wiped the condensation from the window to watch the snow flurries float madly in the wind and used his cold, damp fingers to stroke the length of her spine. She’d squealed and called him an asshole. Her voice was much higher back then and there were no signs yet of the weary composed stillness she would acquire in later years. It had been a mistake, they both knew it. But they had been exhausted and out of sorts and so cold all day that he couldn’t care less as she moved like a live wire under him and gasped profanities in his ear.

He rests his chin on top of her head. “Aren’t you scared of me now?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because at the moment, the distance between my knee and your crotch is minimal.”

“You’d fall.”

“Wanna bet?”

He chuckles. “Ah, it’s so good to be trusted.” He throws another glance at the building across the street while stroking her bare shoulders. “Now we’re making someone *very* rich,” he points out.

Her laughter is still the same, wild cascades of unrestrained peals that somehow comfort him more than her hug does. “Oh well, let’s give them a front page to remember us by,” she tells him before extending her middle finger towards the neighboring building.

He’s not amused by this in the least and takes a quick step back. “This is really not helping,” he tells her, jaws clenching. How can she be so careless?

“Relax, there are no paparazzi in there. Claridge's makes sure that sort of thing does not happen – which is why I chose to stay here tonight.”

He brings his hands to her pale throat, pretending to strangle her, and she laughs some more.

“You could have said that earlier.”

“And miss that hunted deer look on your face? Hmm... let me think...”

He reaches out to touch a burnt copper curl by her cheek. “I hate your guts.”

“I know, our hatred for each other is legendary.”

His hand slips to her stomach. “So how’s my tax deduction?”

She rolls her eyes. “Ah, you heard that one too?”

“I did. You can’t stop people from being idiots – and counting backwards.” He holds her at arm’s length. “Remind me to buy you a copy of ‘The Little Prince’.”

“I already have one.”

“There’s this picture of a boa that swallowed an elephant, it looks a lot like you.”

“I often wondered why I didn’t miss you more. I guess that’s my answer.”

“Or maybe your boy toys kept you too busy to notice that gaping hole in your life.”

“If I push you off that balcony, we can still have that front page,” she tells him with her sweetest smile.

“Nah, I’ll pass.” He looks at her more seriously. “He seems like a nice guy by the way.”

She beams at him. “He is.”

“Are you done with bad boys then?”

That earns him a mild glare. “I’m done with wanting things that are bad for me.”

“Congratulations, you’re way ahead of me.”

She blushes, “I didn’t mean...”

The chirp of his cell phone interrupts her. “I know, it’s ok,” he tells her before checking the message. “Chris wants to know where the fuck we are.”

“Tell him we don’t do night shifts. We’re in Europe. There’s gotta be a law against that sort of exploitation.”

He retrieves his empty glass and they head back inside. “Why didn’t you guys go back home tonight anyway? I thought you lived nearby?”

“And take the chance of having hordes of fans following us and find out where we live? No thank you.”

He laughs. "They probably already know where you live. And what you eat for breakfast and how you take your tea." They go down a flight of stairs and enter the wide, rather crowded dining hall.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get it.” She waves at someone across the room.

He shrugs. “We’re the golden calves of our times.”

“Are you calling me a cow?”

“I’ve called you far worse.”

She laughs again “Oh, believe me, I remember.” She gives his arm a brief squeeze. “I’ll catch you later.”

“I love you, Scully.”

Her smile is wide and bright. “Moron.”

He watches her go, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers. She reminds him of a small fearless clipper, sailing away amidst the crowd, with her prow proudly forward.

He’s happy for her.

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> You can try to justify it until you’re blue in the face but let’s be clear about one thing: this is and always will be WRONG.
> 
> Therefore I had to try.
> 
> This is my one and only attempt at RPF ( well _'Kiss My Ash'_ had minor RPF elements to it, but the focus wasn't on the actors). I wrote this in 2009 under a sock when the fandom was ablaze with flame wars on the matter. I did this out of curiosity, wondering how it would feel to treat DD and GA like characters, how different it would feel from writing Mulder and Scully. The answer is: it felt weird, it felt like I was crossing a boundary, like I forgot my manners somehow, like I had a Lady Dedlock in my head scowling "This is just not done, dear". Even if my story remains quite tame, even if in the end - not knowing Duchovny nor Anderson - I *was* de facto writing fictional characters - I didn't care for how it made me feel afterwards, like I needed a shower or something. Hence this is my first and last attempt at tackling the genre. This said, I'm not ashamed of the story itself, I personally find the result quite sweet, but still: Veni Vidi Arrivederci.


End file.
